


punchdrunk

by twenty_committee



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Dream is a writer, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Photographs, Pining, Rain, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Swimming Pools
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28476702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twenty_committee/pseuds/twenty_committee
Summary: Summer is the time of growing things and warm water and thunderstorms. Summer is the time for Dream to relax, to sit on the dock behind his house and call George. Summer is the time Dream realizes he's drunk on his love for his best friend, and he feels he might drown in all the implications of that.Recommended listening: Pools by Glass Animals
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 73





	1. calm before the storm

**Author's Note:**

> Be respectful. Do not send this to CCs. Do not push ideas of relationships onto people.
> 
> Rating will be updated due to future chapters.

Dream pushes his chair back from his desk with a groan, eyes stinging, blinking into the semi-dark of his room. He's pleasantly warm with the effort of work and the buzz of losing himself in a project, but his eyes and hands are starting to ache, deeply and persistently, enough to chase him from his chair. He stands with a wince, noticing just how much later it is than usual, how there's barely any more natural light angling in. He's been working for hours.

He pulls open the storm door and sits down on his dock, welcoming the late summer sunlight that pours down. When he's been inside all day, it's that much better to be sitting here in the late sun, the water lapping at the dock beneath him, the grove of trees across the water glimmering green, the sun burnishing the water bronze. At this time of year, it's idyllically beautiful, and he wishes that his phone could take a proper picture of it to send to George. All the pictures he takes are flat imitations in a way he can’t explain, like the difference between seeing a butterfly pressed still between pages and one fluttering at your fingertips.

The thought of George comes after the near-automatic motion of calling him, phone glowing open, his number under his thumb. The sway of the dock, the sun cherry-red under his eyelids, the scent of warm water and greenery, it's all tangled up with his voice. It's natural, it's right for Dream to have his voice crackling through. At the end of the day, there's sunlight and green and George. That's just as it should be.

'You're late,' is the first thing George says as soon as the call connects. Dream smiles at his tone, the warmth swelling in his chest matching the honey-gold sunlight. 

'Got a little carried away with editing. Sorry.' He muffles a yawn into his arm, and it gets tangled up with a smile. 'You could have just _called_ me, George, you don't need this- _oh, you're late, whatever will I do?'_ He mimics George's accent. 

'You're such an idiot,' George responds, and Dream can practically hear him rolling his eyes and the smile in his voice. He can't keep from smiling too. 'Your project is going well?'

‘It’s all smooth sailing.' Dream shuffles back and props himself up against one of the dock posts. He relaxes into the warm wood, breathing in the smell of old sunlight that's soaked in. The heat is good on his muscles, but as he rolls his wrist he grimaces at the deep ache. It's going to sting for a while. 'My hand hurts a little. I was pretty focused. I was typing for a long time.’

George clicks his tongue reprimandingly, and Dream chuckles. 

'I'm taking care. It's fine.' He stretches out his arms, luxuriating in the warmth that soothes the ache. 'Thanks.'

'I can call you earlier tomorrow,' George offers. 'If you need a break or something.'

'Yeah,' Dream agrees in surprise, and then again. 'Yeah. Thanks.'

George is more than aware of his _tendencies_ , staying up late and working himself down, always burning the candle at both ends. George knows him, simply and forever. George cares for him. It makes him warm. 

He pushes himself up and rolls his shoulders back, groaning into the long-overdue stretch that makes his toes curl in his socks and his jaw pop and colours spark behind his eyes, making him that much more aware of how long he's been inside.

' _Dream_ ,' George teases at the noise, faux-scandalized. Dream collapses back against the dock and tilts his face to the sky. The sunlight glows red with heat, in his smile, in the connection of the call.

'What, Georgie?'

'You're ridiculous.'

Dream stretches out, reaching out in the warmth until his shirt rides up to his ribs, and falls back. The sky is a fearless summery blue right above him.

'Only around you.'

On the horizon, there's rain clouds gathering. There's been cloudbursts recently, just enough to keep the sunshine glassy-clear. He cracks his eyes open, just barely. The sunlight blurs through his eyelashes, and he can barely make out the green of the trees as the cloudy shadows slip down. George is talking softly, and his heart thrums, and everything, everything is perfect.

'-what do you want? Dream?'

Dream blinks himself out of the haze, tucking the phone closer to his shoulder. ‘Sorry. Here now.'

George huffs fondly. 'You weren't listening. What's distracting you?'

'It's beautiful outside now.' He shades his eyes and admires the sight. Red and gold paints the water, like oil swirling in the wake of the birds' long shadows. 'The water is so calm. I should come outside at this time more.'

'It's later for you, isn't it?' George rustles on the other end. 'Seven or so. Is it dark yet?'

'Not usually.' Dream raises a lazy fingertip to the sky, tracing the anvil-topped clouds, the stormfront on the heat-shimmer horizon. 'There's a storm coming. The clouds make it dark.'

He holds his phone up to the horizon and takes a snap. With his cramping hand and sundrunk head, it’s tilted and blurry, the green of the tree line smearing up into the blueblack clouds as they spread across the rich blue sky. There’s a hint of his blue jeans and the worn wood of the dock in the corner. He sends it. 

‘Pretty,’ George says. Dream hums in agreement. 

‘Summer thunderstorms are my favourite. They scare Patches, but…’ He gazes out at the dramatic cloudscape, like a sky at war with itself. Colours sinking into each other and coming up bruised in purple and blue. ‘They’re something else.’

‘I haven’t seen many.’ 

‘They’re common here. Just a fact of life, I guess.’ He watches the clouds roil in slow motion, like a stormy sea made of honey. 

A notification pops up on his phone, and he can’t help smiling. 

‘Did you screenshot that?’

‘What if I did?’ George retorts playfully. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Because it’s _horrible_. I’ll get you a better one.’ Dream sits up and steadies the phone, angling the shot to capture the intricate blues in the building storm, the shimmer of greenery, the gold on the water. ‘It's nice and blue.’

He hears George screenshot it. 'I like the old one,’ he says casually. ‘I didn’t know you were out on the porch.’

Dream snorts. ‘It’s my dock. Out on the water.’

‘Can I see?’

‘There’s a gorgeous thunderstorm going on and all you want to look at is my house?’ Dream sits up, body loose, swaying slightly with pleasant exhaustion, and takes a picture of the dock. It’s nice, the pale weathered wood, the green water lapping at the base. It feels safe, this little place where only water and storm and Dream can touch. 

George takes another screenshot. 

‘Really?’ Dream asks, faux-exasperated.

‘I want to be prepared when I visit you,’ George says lightly. Dream's lazy, indulgent warmth vanishes. George only makes those jokes on stream. Not like this, not when it's them alone. Dream doesn't know what he wants to think of that. 

'You better,' he says, trying to keep light, head above the water, up above the waves lapping at the bottom of his ribcage.

'I have to. Pictures only go so far.'

The call is comfortably quiet while Dream watches the storm boil across the sky. He can hear George's breathing as it spills over and the rain pours down. Pictures only go so far. No grainy phone camera could capture the afterimage of lightning burning in his vision long after it’s gone, no audio clip even echoes the thunder’s shaking rumble from all around, almost as if it's a sound made by the bones of the very earth. Dream opens his eyes wide and blinks up at the raindrops as they patter down his forearms and catch in his eyelashes. The thunder crackles in his chest cavity, swallowing up his heartbeat.

'It's raining,' he whispers into the phone. Even with the rain all around, even with his voice hushed in something that sounds like awe, he can hear George clearly.

'I can hear it.' 

Dream tilts the phone to the sky just as the lightning flares, and he counts his heartbeats until the thunder booms. 

‘Told you,’ he says, trying to catch his breath. The air is heavy and hot and dripping with rain, and the water is a collection of endless concentric circles, overlapping and interweaving. The rain soaks through his shirt and sends shivers rushing up his spine and down to the tips of his fingers. ‘Told you that there’s nothing like a storm.’

‘I believe you.’ George seems to be holding his breath. 

‘I wish I could show you. Do you know the seconds to distance rule? You can tell how far away the storm is by counting the time between lightning and thunder.’

‘Americans,’ George says. ‘You’ll count in everything except the metric system.’

‘You’re such an idiot.’ Dream can’t help grinning, so wide his vision blurs and his cheeks hurt. His clothes are sopping wet now, and getting out of his jeans will be a nightmare, but he can barely feel the chill. It’s worth it to be outside during a thunderstorm with George’s voice. 

_It would be better if he was here._ Like lightning, unbidden and electric, his mind suddenly forms an image of George on the dock, clothes soaked through to skin. Eyes bright, smile wide for the thunder. Raindrops rolling down his neck and pooling in the dip of his shoulder. Pale skin, stormy sky, and summertime heat. He wants George right here beside him. 

Dream feels like he’s falling even though his grip is tight around the velvety wood planks and around his rain-slick phone case. The rain fills his head, tangled up with George’s voice. His _voice._

‘Count with me,’ he blurts. ‘When the lightning comes.’

George doesn’t hesitate. ‘Tell me when.’

Dream can never brace himself for the lightning, but the expectation before the thunder is almost more important than the sound. A bolt lights the faraway greenery in burning green technicolour. 

‘There,’ he says breathlessly, and George starts counting, _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight-_

Thunder roars, so loud Dream feels it in his bones, and George laughs, more gasp than noise, full of awe and familiarity. 

_‘Wow_ ,’ he says, and Dream can see his smile in his mind so clearly. Like the tree line lit with lightning, every detail burning sharp in his memory. 

‘Wow,’ he agrees. His thoughts are scattered and swirling like rain-dimpled water. George’s smile is so familiar that Dream thinks he could recognize it by touch, by the inflection in his words. 

‘So how far away is the storm?’ George prompts, shaking him from his reverie. 

‘It’s seconds divided by five. It should be a little more than one and a half miles away.’ He props himself up, grimacing at the waterlogged weight of his clothes. ‘It means I should probably get inside.’

‘You’ve been outside this whole time?’ George scolds, sounding horrified. Dream laughs as he goes inside and hauls the storm door shut. 

The storm isn’t half as impressive from behind glass, and his house is quiet and dark. The loudest noise is his clothes dripping onto the tile, a polite imitation of the rain lashing the windows, and George. 

‘My clothes are fucking _soaked_ ,’ Dream realizes aloud, switching the call to speaker so he can hold out his arms, comprehending fully for the first time that sitting outside in a thunderstorm might have been a bad idea. 

George snorts, and then giggles, and Dream’s bafflement at his own stupidity melts away as George _howls_ with laughter, exuberant and golden as sunlight. Dream stares at the glowing screen, breath catching in his throat. He knows what George looks like when he laughs, but he wishes desperately that his camera was on now, so he could see him throwing his head back, eyes bright, undone. 

‘That tends to happen-’ George can barely catch his breath, giggling too much to speak. ‘That tends to happen when you’re _outside_ during a storm.’

‘You’re _such_ an idiot,’ Dream breathes, heart pounding. He wants to see George laughing like this. He wants to hear the warmth and _see_ him fall apart in this wonderful unrestrained way that he sees so rarely. 

‘I thought you’d gone inside when it started.’

‘Nah,’ he manages to say. The glowing phone is the only light in his kitchen, illuminating the puddle at his feet and the bare walls. This corner of the kitchen is the only thing that feels real right now, alive and awake while the rest of the world is sleeping. He still doesn’t feel chilled, even though the cold of the tile is stinging up his legs. ‘A storm isn’t as good indoors.’

‘Don’t blame me when you’re stuck indoors for a couple weeks because you got a cold from-’ George giggles again, sounding only slightly apologetic. ‘You really stayed outdoors during a _thunderstorm._ ’

‘You’d understand if you were here, I promise.’ Dream pulls his hoodie off and plucks his wet T-shirt away from his skin, grimacing at the way the water runs in rivulets down his skin. ‘God, my hoodie weighs like, five pounds now. I don’t know where I’m going to put it.’

‘You’re taking off your clothes?’ George asks after a pause. 

Dream drops it on the tile with a wet smack. ‘Just my hoodie. I’m not turning on the camera for you, Georgie,’ he teases, and gets a half-laugh in return. A different kind of chill still wraps fingers around his heart, and he lets go of his shirt tail. He can take the rest off in his bathroom. 

‘Thanks for showing me the storm,’ George offers in the quiet. ‘It was...a lot.’

Dream hums, balancing the phone against his shoulder as he carries the hoodie to the laundry room. ‘That’s why I had to stay out.’

‘You idiot,’ George says fondly. ‘You better not get sick.’

‘I’ll take care,’ Dream assures him. He leans against the wall, the chill soaking through his skin. The world is moving in slow dance steps, utterly comfortable. George and rain belong together in his mind, George and rain and everything that comes of them. ‘Promise.’

George yawns, and Dream realizes that it’s truly dark now, the sky inky black and roiling. ‘I’m glad.’

He doesn’t want this moment to end. He wants this slow-dance world to last longer. The tension in his shoulders and hand is gone, washed away by rain. Work exhausts him pleasantly, but rain and George unwind him in a different way. 

‘I should go get out of these,’ he finally says. ‘And it’s later for you, too. You should sleep.’

George’s words get caught with another yawn. 

‘Yeah. I’m going to go to bed too. Goodnight, Dream.’

‘Night.’

Without the glow of the call, the house seems a little too dark and quiet even with the rain tapping on the windows, all the rooms a little too empty. Dream turns on the bright white bathroom lights and stands there staring at himself. All of it- the stillness and the floodlight white, it brings _him_ into focus in a way his rain-drunk head can’t manage and yet can’t look away from. 

Slowly, half-bemused by it, Dream raises his phone to the mirror, the camera capturing his wide eyes, his hair dark and stuck to his forehead with rain, raindrops rolling down his forearms. In some places, the worn T-shirt sticks to his skin. 

_George,_ his mind sings, and for a flashing instant he thinks of George in these clothes, the neckline of the worn-out shirt a little too big, the fabric near translucent with rain. 

His fingers curl tight on the lip of the bathroom counter, dragging a noise from his throat. The rain is deafening on the windows. Thunder rattles through his bones. 

He turns away from himself, covering his face with his forearm, and takes a picture. The flash is echoed by lightning outside, and then thunder rushing after, barely two heartbeats behind. He’s falling into the heart of the storm. 

He knows before he even opens it that he can’t send it to George. Blue jeans nearly black with rain, the lines of his body through the shirt. He couldn’t. Pictures only go so far, but this one is too much. 

Dream stretches the edge of his shirt out between his fingers. The worn white fabric is translucent with water, and he can see the frosted shadows of his fingers spread behind it. He takes a snap of that, instead, and sends it to George. There’s no response, and he slumps slightly. In relief, in disappointment, he doesn’t know anymore. It’s hard to think with his head full of rain. 

Dream changes into his dry clothes and goes to bed without looking at himself in the mirror. Usually, the rain lulls him to sleep quickly, but not tonight. Just as he’s almost asleep, his phone glows open with a buzz and he squints, pawing for it in the dark. The notification doesn’t make sense for a while. 

George took a screenshot of his photo. 

Dream hovers over their DMs- _thought you were asleep Georgie?_ \- but his thoughts are tangled and heavy with water, echoing the reflecting ripples all around the dock. He thinks of George, and then of himself, the photo of him soaked in rain. What George would think of it. What he would say. 

Dream closes his phone again. He’ll be better in the morning, he thinks, once this summer cloudburst is over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to a lot of rain remixes while writing. Enjoy!
> 
> -1050


	2. sun showers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dream loves sun showers. They're a rare kind of beautiful, and he wishes in that moment- a breeze in his hair, heart light- that he could capture this moment for George.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if the formatting/appearance is glitched here.

Dream wakes with Patches curled on his chest and his bedroom full of warm clear sunlight. He drags a lazy hand through her fur and swipes his phone open, remembering too late everything that happened under the veil of rain and late night. It doesn't feel quite real.

The notification is gone now, but the memory lingers. George has a photo of his soaked-through shirt and his hand, in the fluorescent white lights of his bathroom. He opens their messages again, hesitating. The thoughts that seemed simply awkward last night now seem impenetrably tangled. 

_good storm last night_ , he sends instead of any of his real thoughts, and adds a photo of the sunlight making the window into a bright square. _its over now though_

George responds so fast that he's barely taken his fingers off the keys, let alone cobbled his thoughts together.

_i loved it_

He blinks at the words. His mouth feels a little dry and his thoughts are still slow. He can see their hours-long call in chat, and he wants to ask about the photo, but he doesn't. Not in the sunlight with his hand buried in Patches' fur.

_if you loved it so much ill call you again when theres another_ he promises.

_id like that_ George responds, simple and easy. It's like the rain has smoothed away every possible wave in this quiet conversation. Dream rubs his hand through his hair. His eyes still prickle and the sore muscles from yesterday haven't fully stretched out yet, but he's warm and indulgent.

_but if ur sick ill laugh_ George texts. _stay inside next time_

_cant_ Dream lazily taps. Patches nudges her cool nose into his neck, and he pets her head. _i cant resist a storm_

_idiot_ George sends, and Dream knows exactly what the expression on his face looks like, the crinkle of his brow and the huff of exasperation and fondness that he hears on their calls late at night. He wants to see it. He wants to know what George is doing, if he's laying in his bed with the blue and white sheets and smiling as he thinks about Florida.

Some part of Dream wants George to fall in love with thunderstorms and Florida warmth, to laugh at the lightning with him. Outside on the dock, raindrops on his skin.

_did you like my picture_ he types, and then thinks better of it and deletes the message. He can see the bubble of George writing for a moment, before it disappears too.

They don't really need to talk about it, Dream assures himself. This is normal, this is enough, texting George in the lazy, comfortable way people text when they know each other well enough that they don't need all the words.

Still, he doesn't know what to say anymore. The weight of water and electricity seems to hang over them, stifling all their words. Dream scrabbles for the thermometer he left in the mess of his side table, sticks it in his mouth for a moment, and turns the camera down to take a picture.

_youll be happy to know im not sick_

_very happy_ George says. _i miss you when youre sick_

Dream smiles at that, and goes to call Sapnap. He picks up.

'George texted me and said your hand was sore,' he says promptly. Dream groans.

'Don't I deserve at least a hello?'

'Hello, Dream. Why did George say your hand was sore?'

'I hate him.'

'I can't believe you'd talk to _him_ that way and not me,' Sapnap says mischievously. 'He wouldn't even say those things back.'

Something soft and painful worms up in Dream’s chest, and he crushes it back down. 'I hate you both.'

Sapnap laughs. 'I know. Are you good?'

‘Good enough.' Sapnap’s words swim circles in his head. George would, he would say those things back. George talked about visiting him. That counts for something, even if he doesn't know what it is. 'It stormed again last night,’ he says instead, pushing George’s words into the background noise, among the raindrops. Both gone now. Out of his head.

'Again?’ Sapnap clicks his tongue consolingly. ‘Your weather is shit.’

‘Don’t I know it. My clothes got soaked through.’

‘What did you do? Get caught in it or something?’

'Or something,' Dream says vaguely. 

'Did you _stay_ outside in the thunderstorm, Dream?' Sapnap says knowingly, and Dream huffs and rolls his eyes at the screen. 

'Only for a little while.' He hesitates over the reason why. He doesn't know what it means, in the bright clear sunlight of midmorning, and he doesn't want to delve too far into the maelstrom. He thinks he could get lost in that storm.

'You're an idiot.'

'George told me that too.' Dream remembers the sound of him laughing so hard he was gasping. 'I thought at least you would support me,' he adds, pouring the melodrama on thick.

'Nope.' He pops the _p._ 'Anyways- your hand. Is it still sore now?'

'Unfortunately.'

'It's Saturday. You can rest, you know.'

Dream sighs and drags his hand over his face. 'I'll try.'

Sapnap hums. He knows, he understands Dream's patterns like his own. He knows the way his thoughts run, looping in raindrop circles around wanting _more, more, more,_ unable to settle down or stop moving and reaching for even a moment. This isn't the first time Dream's done this to himself, not the first ache that lasts days longer than it should.

'Sometimes you just need to let things heal.' His keyboard clacks. 'Messing with your wrist more is only gonna make it take longer 'till you're back.'

'Yes, mom,' Dream snarks, but he knows its sound advice. He can't help it, though. His fingers trace over the scar on the nape of his neck that wouldn't have scarred half as bad if he had been able to keep his hands off it. He's never been good with obeying warning labels and good advice.

Something taps the window, slowly, and then in a pattering rhythm that mirrors Sapnap's typing. Dream blinks in surprise. 

'It's raining again.' He jumps out of bed and opens the window, welcoming the cool spark of raindrops on his sleep-warm skin. The sunlight streams down, made all the more beautiful by the rain. 'It's a sun shower.'

Dream loves sun showers. They're a rare kind of beautiful, and he wishes in that moment- a breeze in his hair, heart light- that he could capture this moment for George.

He takes a photo leaning out his window and sends it to Sapnap. The rain catches in his hair and wets the collar of his shirt, and he laughs in delight, feeling light and sunny and buoyant on the waves.

'You're outside again,' Sapnap says in disbelief. 'You are _so_ going to catch a cold.'

'I'm going to be fine. I can take care of myself. I've never gotten sick from this before.' Dream waves it off.

'That's- that's _literally_ not true.' Sapnap snorts. 'Remember? We were trying to play and then you dropped out because you'd taken a bike ride in the rain, and George complained the whole time about you not being around?'

'That was a long time ago,' he defends. 'And it's warm. If I was going to catch anything, it would have happened last night.'

Out on the water, faraway and indigo, are the storm clouds. The wind must have blown the rain in while it's still sunny. Dream closes his eyes and breathes in the petrichor. He imagines he can taste the greenery and salt of the water. 

His thoughts wander back to George. It's rainy in England, he knows that. He wonders if George would smell like petrichor. Of rain and sun.

Lightning flashes in the faraway clouds. The rain rattles lightly on the roof. Dream shuts the window and throws himself back on the bed with a groan. It all comes back to his words, his voice in the rain.

_-when I visit you._

He buries his head in the pillows and groans again, as if maybe doing it again will make the sound reach all the way to England and tell George personally that he's stupid.

'That is not a happy noise,' Sapnap observes. He clicks frantically. 'Ugh. Stupid baby zombies.'

'Stop spam clicking, Sapnap.'

'Stop groaning and tell me what you're moping about, Dream.' He pauses. 'Are you actually sick and don't want to tell me? I'll laugh.'

'George talked about visiting me.'

The thunder comes long after the lightning and nearly swallows up his words. For a second, he hopes it did, so he can get all of the relief of saying them and none of the awkwardness of following up. He knows that’s stupid, like expecting all his storms be sun showers and not hurricanes.

‘He does that a lot,’ Sapnap says. He's not clicking anymore.

Dream hisses a breath out between his lower lip and his teeth. ‘I _know_.’

‘Dream.’ Sapnap shifts in his chair, voice suddenly intent, concerned in a way Dream feels bad for. It’s the rain, he thinks. The rain does something to him. The rain warps all his thoughts like bubbling glass. If it would just be sunny, he'd be fine. ‘Is he like- for real?’

Dream doesn’t answer for a while. He can’t. George isn’t a liar, but he reveals things like this only in hints and veiled implication. It’s frustrating, sometimes, trying to put together an image of _George_ when he fights him on every puzzle piece. It’s frustrating and confusing and he wouldn’t have it any other way, because it’s George. 

‘He wasn’t lying,’ he finally manages. He thinks, he hopes that’s true.

'He's not a liar.' 

They sit there on call for a while longer until Sapnap says he has to go eat, and signs off with a last reminder not to strain his wrist any more.

The boundaries of truth seem to have blurred like storm and sun. Dream throws his head back against the sheets, frustration making him itch. It's not fair that George says one thing and it keeps him up like this. Doesn't he know that Dream is next to _chronic_ with his thoughts, that he can't let go of things when he should?

He's being ridiculous. George made a casual comment, a joke that he's made a dozen times before, and Dream got it mixed up with the intensity of the storm. He was just rain-drunk, nothing more.

Dream wanders downstairs, following Patches, and pours himself some cereal. He's on the verge of actually taking Sapnap's advice and taking the day off. Maybe he'll spend a lazy day in his car, driving in the rain-splattered streets with music on high and the window wipers making a steady beat. He used to do that when he was still in high school, driving nowhere and burning up gas, head full of confusing grey clouds. 

Maybe he'll go for a run in the rain, just to prove Sapnap wrong. He discards that idea simply because the possibility of actually getting sick and then getting mocked is too high for his pride to accept.

He swipes open his phone and navigates to Docs, scrolling past a couple dozen rushed story ideas and notes to try to find something to stave off the itch. All he finds are files labeled things like _untitled document 29_ and _untitled document 86_ and the guilty acknowledgement that he really should get them cleaned up and properly labeled some day.

The problem is that Dream feels like a firework with a short fuse. He wants to work, or run outside, or do something as drastic and loud and attention-grabbing as thunder to stave off his swirling thoughts. Even though he knows it's stupid, he can't let go.

He scrolls back up and opens a new document. The blank white surface is calming, in a way. It means possibility. He could do anything.

_When I visit you_ , he types. The words on the little screen suddenly seem so innocent that he wants to laugh. 

'He was just making a joke,' he says aloud, and writes that down too. There on the screen in black and white, the indisputable proof that Sapnap was right and he shouldn't stay up late in thunderstorms.

He'll accept that if it means the words can stop wearing themselves smooth in his mind, like river stones polished by water.

He labels the document _George_ , in an attempt to start that _filing-his-documents_ thing he's been promising he'll do for a couple years. It stands there at the top of his Docs app, clean and polished and making all kinds of sense, solid as sunshine after a cloudburst.

He ends up cleaning up for most of the day while the sky can't decide if it wants to shower or not, and he actually fixes most of his drawers like he's been trying to do for weeks. They'll be messy again soon, but they look nice now and they set his mind into comfortable, acceptable lines. A document clearly detailing what George means and doesn't. A drawer full of mostly folded shirts, washed and dried of rain. Everything feels right.

Dream sits outside at the end of the day and looks out at the clouds swirling slowly apart. The storm is almost burnt out, concerned with itself far away, and the rain is nearly gone now. He holds out his hand and catches the last raindrops, rolling down his knuckles between the ripples of late afternoon sun. He's been hearing- or thinking he's hearing- ripples of thunder all day.

He takes a snap and sends it to George with the caption _it was raining again_ and without really thinking, remembering too late that he already has a picture he meant to send him, of the sun and rain on the roof below his window.

He sends it too, too hurried to add a proper caption. _sun shower_ is all it says.

_George took a screenshot_ , his phone announces, and though Dream waits indulgently for a second screenshot, it never comes. 

He opens the lone notification and the breath rushes out of him. 

George said he liked pictures of his house. He's such a liar.

_whats a sunshower_ George texts, like he didn't just save a picture of Dream's hand dripping rain. Dream sits down on his dock. His fingers hover over the keys.

_Why did you only take a screenshot of that one. Why won't you say anything._

He opens Docs again and stares at the new file. He's just making a joke, Dream reminds himself. George likes that, he likes his jokes so subtle that sometimes Dream doesn't get them until the night after. This is normal.

Fine, then. Dream will play along. 

_when it rains while its sunny_

_idiot_

_interesting_ George responds after his bubble has stood there for what feels like several minutes. 

_its beautiful_ Dream continues. George starts typing again, but he doesn't let him finish. _i guess you dont get them there since you haven't ever seen the sun_

He adds a long list of various crying emojis he finds, and the wavering, gossamer thread of tension snaps, the still water shattered by a thousand raindrop ripples as George sends him a single frowny emoji followed by a request to call. A frowny face has never felt so relieving.

'Dream,' he says. Dream almost laughs at the incredible sound of his name in that exasperated, wonderfully fond way. His accent and his tone twist it into something beautiful.

'I'm not wrong, Georgie.'

' _Dream,_ ' he says again, trying to stifle a laugh. 'You're such an idiot.'

A ding comes through the call. George hums. 'Dream is mocking me because he says there's no sun here.'

'Are you streaming?' Dream asks after a pause, something on the bitter side of electric settling beneath his tongue. He feels exposed, suddenly. 

George shifts. 'Yeah.' His voice warns and apologizes in one. 

_Does your stream know you saved only the picture of my hand?_

'No problem,' Dream says, trying to keep his voice light. The waves lap at the posts, and he wishes, ridiculously, that George heard that instead of the clamor of the chat. He wishes their call was private. 'Can they hear me?'

'No.' 

The tension eases slightly. Dream gets up, the phone still pressed to his ear, and goes inside to watch. The stream loads up. George is building something, brows furrowed slightly in concentration.

'What's this?'

'Just something I'm helping with on Bad's server. How is your...thing,' he says vaguely.

'My sore wrist?' Dream asks, feeling his mouth twitch up at the corner. 'Much better.'

'I'm glad.'

'I took Sap's advice and had an easy day. Didn't strain it.'

George nods. 'Good.'

Dream can't help talking. It's something about being on call with George in front of thousands of people, where he's so controlled and careful with even his expressions. 

'When you come over-' The words taste like lightning on his tongue, but he doesn't hesitate, doesn't give George time to speak. _I can play this game too, Georgie_. 'I'll have to show you the sun for the first time.'

George's eyes dart down to where Dream knows he keeps his phone. 'I've _seen_ the sun before.'

'You don't look like it.'

His gaze snaps back to the camera, eyes narrowing into that familiar exasperated amusement. 

'You're so pale,' Dream adds. 'Especially compared to me.'

George freezes, eyes widening, and searches the frame, as if the electric eye of the camera will give him answers. Dream knows he's nothing but the voice in his ear, and he loves it. It makes him bold, feels like rain and wine in his mouth. 

'How would you know, Dream?' he asks, so very carefully.

'How wouldn't you, George?' Dream challenges, and the words just- _happen_. 'You saved that picture of my hand.'

Onscreen, George's character stops moving. He stares at the camera. 

'You know I'm right,' Dream whispers. He doesn't- he can't take the words back. If he's going to drown, it may as well be at the bottom of the lake. 'Take a picture. Show me.'

Dream catches the blush in the moment before George turns away from the camera. Red creeping up his neck, across the arch of his cheeks. George shifts back in his chair, head thrown back. His shirt is rumpled and he jerkily pulls at it, fingers knotting tight in the hem as he tries to straighten out the creases that look like they've been carved by rainwater weight, all trying to hide the red spilling over his skin. How has Dream never thought of how he looks, red like this, before?

'You're blushing,' he breathes. 

George almost hisses under his breath. 'No.'

'Prove it.' He knows he's asking for things they don't talk about when they're live and public. The chat is racing past, but he barely notices.

'You ask for a lot, Dream.' George says quietly, voice slipping into something darker, something warning but not sharp yet. 'A lot.'

'I know I do.' Dream drinks in the screen like a man dying of thirst. He can see the pale skin of George's throat reddening, slow as the tides. Though his head is tilted back and his face is out of sight, Dream can imagine what he looks like. Eyes closed, expresion intense and lost and _open_ , entirely focused on Dream's voice. 'Prove it to me, George. What are you scared of?'

George makes a tiny, almost imperceptible noise, so quiet that even his stream might not have heard. It sounds like frustration and desperation and something deeper that he could drown in. Dream hears himself gasp along with it.

'Not now, Dream,' he abruptly says, voice blank and flat. He sits up, and there is only a fading flush high in his cheeks to prove the noise he breathed out. It could have been forgotten, if Dream wasn't sure he'd remember it better than his own name.

'Dream was just being mean about the weather,' he tells the stream easily. Dream can faintly see the chat flashing by in his peripheral vision, but all he can focus on is George, sitting up and smoothing himself down, straightening the creases he'd put in his shirt. Something infuriates and fascinates Dream about George putting himself back together when he _had_ him, drew that noise out with just a mention of how George looked, of _show me, prove it to me_.

Dream watches the stream silently. He notices his hands tight in his jeans, his wrist twinging, and lets go with a grimace.

'George,' he begins, guilt twisting tight and hot in his stomach. He knows he went too far, but he doesn't know at what point he crossed the line. 

'Dream,' he replies. There's something like a promise there, something warmer than Dream expected. 

'I have a right to be mean about the weather,' he says slowly, testing their boundaries again. Some dark part of him thinks it isn't _fair._ He heard George, and that noise meant- _something._ Something he doesn't quite understand. His head feels like a hurricane.

'You shouldn't have stayed out in a thunderstorm.' George keeps building onscreen. Dream watches it without registering a thing beyond George in the corner, pale skin wiped of his blush. _Not fair._

'I did it for you.'

George stills again.

Does he know? Does he know that Dream can't stop thinking about him? That he barely feels the rain when he thinks of his laugh?

George closes his eyes. Dream wonders if he's the only one who can see him struggle. George keeps all his emotions locked up behind porcelain walls, and Dream had to learn what every subtlety and breath meant. He can't tell what George is feeling now, except that it's not true anger.

'I know,' he says, and without warning or ceremony, he turns off the call with a pop of static. Dream is left clutching a dead phone, cold with the sudden rejection. 

He's always been terrified of being _too much_ and driving George away because he can't keep himself in check. This is what happens when he doesn't watch himself.

He's _furious_ and hotly ashamed of himself. In their messages, he types _sorry,_ every letter careful, and sends it.

George's gaze flicks down onstream. All his thoughts are hidden beneath a blank, unruffled mask. Dream hates it, and hates himself more.

'I know, Dream,' he says again. His words seem quiet, private, even as a hundred thousand people watch. Dream tucks his knees up to his chest and watches George in the quiet, dark room. He smooths the waves down, talking to his stream easily, looking as calm as water in the late afternoon.

Dream only stirs to send him twenty dollars in donations under a side account, without a message. He sees George stumble, just barely, over his words as he sees it. For a second, with him saying the name he knows still means _Dream_ , it's private again. It's not enough to chase away the hot, sickly taste of shame and anger at himself.

George ends his stream. Dream stays hunched in his chair, an insistent low pain making itself known in his spine. The room is dark and humid and stiflingly hot. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've seen a couple sun showers before, and they're uncommon but beautiful weather. 
> 
> I tried to emphasize how I believe Dream as a writer and someone who hyperfixates would work. 
> 
> I've also been working on 'the stages of drowning'. 
> 
> -1050


End file.
